


Alternate Ending to The Mistake and a Heart to Break

by MissLee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Cheating, Drug Use, Drugs, F/M, Heavy Angst, Infidelity, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Rated M for adult themes i.e. Drugs and Suicide, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Whump, Suicide, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 03:17:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11958576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissLee/pseuds/MissLee
Summary: This is an alternate ending to The Mistake and a Heart to Break by webley bulldog (fanficsofclare).Sherlock catches John cheating on him.Very angsty.





	Alternate Ending to The Mistake and a Heart to Break

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Mistake and a Heart to Break](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3363551) by [webley bulldog (fanficsofclare)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanficsofclare/pseuds/webley%20bulldog). 



> Go and read the original if you haven't already! Also I had to change the tense to past tense. The break between mine and the original is the three asterisks. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

 

The door slammed shut with a noise so loud it made the bed shake, long coat barely slipping out of the room in time behind the furious owner. The framed picture of two close friends droped from it's peg on the wall and the glass smashed. The soft, naked body of Mary jolted away and stood, shouting accusations.

  
"You said you broke up with him!" She yelled, throwing his discarded clothes at him and roughly pulling on her own. It was uncomfortable, the inside of her thighs wet against the coarse denim of her tight jeans. She ignored it for a chance to get out, but he caught her wrist.

"Mary wait- I can explain-" John said, but he couldn't. They both know that and she yanked her hand away and stormed out, hair a mess and holding her heels. She retreated to her dorm in shame, tail between her legs.

John buried his red face in his hands, sat naked on the edge of his bed with the door ajar. "Stupid." He muttered to no one but himself, he made a fist and weakly hit his own forehead. "Sherlock's the best thing that could ever happen to you." He continued, flagging erection looking sad against his thighs.

He stood after a long time of cursing his own ignorance and arrogance, closing the door and slowly pulling on clothes. He looked over to the bed where he first met Sherlock. Since joining the university, Sherlock had taken over his dorm and his life. They no longer needed separate beds, at least before this.

He wondered if Sherlock would return that day, or the next, or at all, and if he would want to talk. John punched the wall, repeatedly, causing a faint reddening and bruising along his knuckles. He gets his heart racing, causing him to take deep breathes. He could smell her, the perfume, the shampoo, and could still taste her.

He doesn't know why he did it. John cannot think of any excuse, nothing that could fix this. He worked on his apology, speaking aloud to himself for the rest of the day. "Sherlock, I'm sorry- I'm so so sorry." He shook his head and tried again. "It was a stupid thing to do-" No good. He collapsed onto the floor, hunched over.

***

Sherlock didn't return that night. John lie awake in their dorm (theirs?) tossing and turning, worried about what Sherlock was getting up to. God he'd screwed this up so much. Sherlock was the best thing in his life and he'd done _this_.

John didn't see or hear anything of Sherlock for the entirety of the next day. He trudged heavily between classes, scanning corridors and classrooms but came up empty. Exactly how he felt now.

Mary glared at him from across the cafe at lunch and he was reminded, quite forcibly, that he hadn't only hurt Sherlock but Mary as well. She would hate him for this (and so she should) but he found he didn't care about that when the most wonderful, amazing, fantastic person in his life had all but gone missing.

Upon returning to his dorm room that evening, he was assaulted with the lingering scent of his and Mary's coupling the night before. It was foreign to him where normally he'd be able to hear Sherlock pottering around and smell his aftershave but instead he was met with silence and his own betrayal.

The moment he walked in however he knew that Sherlock had been back. A wardrobe they shared (used to share, he supposed) was open and on the floor in front of it was a wood panel and an empty velvet box. He didn't recognise the box itself but the deep indent in the blue silky material told him everything he needed to know. A syringe, probably along with several replacement needles, had been stored there prior to his discovery.

John knew of his friend's (lover's? Ex boyfriend's? Roommate's?) previous drug use but Sherlock had told John he'd been clean for a year when they'd met. They were a few months into their acquaintance so surely that was enough time for him to have kicked the habit?

By now the panic was constricting his throat and his stomach had tied itself into knots that churned continuously, making him want to bend double and wretch until the feeling passed. But he couldn't, there was nothing in his system except from bile and shame. John had forgone lunch in the end and not sleeping the night before had left him running on nothing but worry and remorse.

Briefly, he considered calling Mycroft but then decided against it; Sherlock would likely not thank him for getting his _brother_ , of all people, involved with the situation. It was bad enough as it was. No. John would just have to find him on his own.

His feet led him to the other side of the university campus where dorm block C was. Students studying athletics and the overspill from the science department milled around outside but John stormed past them all. He was looking for a very particular person.

Room 378 loomed at the end of the hall on the second floor and John could already hear the, god awful, so called 'music' spilling from the crack beneath the door. He banged angrily on the wood until the sound ebbed away and the entrance was flung open to reveal a muscly, dark skinned man covered with tattoos by the name of Victor Trevor. Otherwise known as the campus dealer.

"Where is he?" John demanded.

Victor laughed, a sickening sound that permeated every cell of Johns body and made his skin crawl. "You've really done it Johnny! He was in such a state when he got here. God you should have seen him! But then again, I guess you were balls deep in your bitch at the time..." He trailed off into another grating laugh as Johns jaw clenched and the hand not grasping the door frame with white knuckles curled into a tight fist.

Victor looked him up and down and took in the rigid stance and simply gave him a look of mock pity. "You can hit me all you like; it won't change a thing. You probably won't even feel any better."

"I can judge that for myself." John ground out.

"Fine. But I won't tell you where he is."

John did his best to relax his posture, "Please?"

After a moment of deliberation, "Wiggins is your best bet. There's a house in the East End, I can get the raw product," John winced. He didn't want to hear this. "But Wiggins really is the better chemist if you want to shoot up, which your Sherlock does," Victor grinned, "Although I s'pose he ain't yours anymore..." He trailed off with another chuckle which only served to piss John off further.

Grinding his teeth, he turned to leave but remembered he didn't have the address, "So where is it?" He asked in an irate tone.

"Ay Johnny! Knew you were smart enough to ask that!" Victor brandished a pen and a small slip of paper from seemingly out of nowhere and slowly and ever so carefully printed the address. He purposefully took far longer than necessary just to punish John even further, he was a man with no time for cheaters and did genuinely like Sherlock. Seeing him like he was... Well, it made his blood boil.

Victor's ploy worked as John became noticeably more agitated by the second. He handed the address over and watched as John stalked down the hall. Once he was nearly around the corner Victor called out loudly, in a deep, booming voice, "John?" A pause as John turned to glare back at him, "He's far too good for you." He watched as Johns face dropped from frustration to a look of complete and utter defeat.

Deep down John knew he was right. There was no way on this Earth he would ever be worthy of Sherlock. No one save for maybe Gods could hope to be deserving of Sherlock Holmes.

He ran out and flagged down a taxi. After giving the driver the address he slumped into the leather seat and covered his face with his hands.

_Fucking why?_

Dead time stretched out before him as he sat and contemplated what he could possibly say to make it any better. In the end though, he spent most of the time worrying about the state Sherlock was in. He might not even be conscious and then he'd have to ring Mycroft and go to a hospital and possibly lose him forever.

Eventually, after a painfully slow twenty minutes worth of driving, the cabbie pulled up to the back of what John could only assume was a house back when it was first built.

Unbeknownst to him, the taxi driver had been glancing back at John throughout the journey with a concerned look on his face through the rear view mirror. He'd seen Johns type before; several times he'd driven friends and family that were sick with worry to this place and places just like it. "Mate, you'll want to go in round the side. You'll get to some double doors; go in there and then I guess it's just lookin' about."

John nodded to the driver and handed over a few notes before bolting out of the cab around to where the man said the double doors would be. Sure enough, he found some beaten up planks of wood that vaguely resembled doors and barged through. "Sherlock!" His heart was racing and the blood pounded around his skull as if it were going to burst.

A voice with a thick cockney accent sounded from behind John. "So _you're_ the boyfriend."

John whipped around, "Excuse me? Who the hell are you?"

"You're earlier than I expected; what with you not loving 'im an' all." The man drawled. This would be Wiggins then, John presumed.

"I do love him," John growled angrily, the blood seared through his veins. "Don't you dare tell me I don't."

Wiggins chuckled slightly, "Not the impression he's under." He wanted to beat the smile off of Wiggins' face, anything could be happening and they were just standing idly by while Sherlock could still be anywhere and doing anything.

"Where is he? I need to see him." He ground out, struggling to keep his temper under relative control.

"Nope, can't tell you that."

"Why not?!" John shouted. Control was unlikely anyway.

"He doesn't want to see ya, mate." After a second he added, under his breath, "I wouldn't neither."

"But- I have to apologise..." In that moment his voice was so small and he looked so broken that Wiggins took pity on him.

"Try upstairs," he shrugged.

John left without another word and soon came to be on the second floor. It was horrendously dark and it smelt how John would imagine loneliness to smell. His heart broke for the man he loved as he took in the surroundings: mattresses and piles of old blankets were everywhere, they lined the walls and littered the floors and in them laid people so still and pale looking that if someone told you they were corpses you wouldn't have questioned it. The windows were boarded up so only the barest tendrils of cold sunlight filtered through from the outside, the planks of wood beneath him creaked and shifted unsteadily as he picked his way over the debris.

Heavy, laboured breaths could be heard behind John that he thought sounded too terrifyingly familiar.

He turned slowly, panic bleeding up through his spine and prickling across his skin as he was met with a sight that would forever scorch itself into his retinas.

Sherlock was curled up with the fingers of his left hand twitching, forearm decorated with ugly, disturbingly circular bruises that surrounded puncture marks. The skin around his normally full, pink lips was tinged blue and, upon closer inspection, so were the tips of his fingers.

John collapsed by his side, "Sh- Sherlock?" He stammered around the lump in his throat as he tried to sit his boyfriend up but found his skin deathly cold and clammy to the touch. John wasn't strong enough to move Sherlock's dead weight from his position on the old, grimy mattress; Sherlock grunted and groaned as he was instead shifted to be in John's lap, gazing blearily up at him.

Gripping his face, John stretched the thin skin underneath Sherlock's eyes to get a better look at his pupils. Constricted. Tiny bullet holes ripping through dim, glasz galaxies.

John loved his eyes; when he was happy they would shine, the little gold flecks would shimmer in the light and John always said he could get lost in them, could spend forever exploring them.

When Sherlock was angry, the green would blaze and drown out the blue, everything serene about them would evaporate into nothingness and they would burn a hole through you in an instant.

But when he was sad... They turned icy and cold. No beautiful green, nor speck of gold, the blue swallowed the life in them. That hurt the most.

"Jo- John," Sherlocks voice was hoarse and near silent; he sounded like he'd been screaming and crying for hours. "You shouldn't be here," he whispered slowly, carefully, like it was taking the utmost concentration.

"I know, I know you don't want me here but I had to see you and I had to apologise before you-" his rambling was cut off suddenly by the lump in his throat that swelled as Sherlock's eyes grew unfocused. He wasn't looking at him anymore, just past him. "Before-" he tried again but couldn't finish it. Couldn't say out loud that he was losing Sherlock for good.

Sherlock heaved two heavy breaths, "I tried so hard to be... what you wanted..."

"You are!" John rushed to reassure him as he barely kept back the tears, Sherlock's eyes were closing rapidly. "You're everything! Please, please, please don't leave me now, please I need you... I need you..." John trailed off into quiet, heaving, wracking sobs as Sherlock fell unconscious.

John held him close and cried, curled over Sherlocks shoulders and gripping tightly to his matted curls and too-skinny frame.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I hope you enjoyed this, and when I say enjoyed I mean I hope you cried :D 
> 
> Could I have written more? Probably. But I felt it was good to leave it there, anything else would have been forced. 
> 
> I hope the original author likes this!
> 
> Comments and kudos greatly appreciated! <3
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://missleeismyname.tumblr.com/)


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